The Fisherman

warrior’s skin, hair grey and black beneath his palm straw hat,
he walks along the railroad tracks, a rod and reel tight to his back,
and on his shoulder, water, bait, circle hooks, and a fresh filled
bolillo roll, placed neat inside his canvas pack.

a life ago, he hopped a train in Michoacan, and trekked north
a path unknown, till he settled in to work the fields, a cold bed at
night, as hard as stone. then he counted the bags he filled, now he
counts his children’s smiles, and no longer sleeps alone.

he turns down the path, marked by the oak, between the licorice and reeds,
he thinks of his wife, how life is good, the day is his, and he feels free to
hum a song of Michoacán, while he walks beside the creek, its water carving
from the earth, its way like he, sure and true, back to the sea.

the dawn is new from rain, the kelp fresh cleaved, lain upon the sand
and great boulders loosed from cliffs have joined smooth rocks below,
so there, he climbs to stand, to scan the sea and cast a line, to catch
a fish or just a dream, of the land and those, he left behind.

smooth as glass and cloudy, the cold-water eddies in, and back he turns to face
the cliffs till like the ancient catapult, he casts line and hooks and bait to soar,
high beyond the rocks and waves, while light as air he turns in sync, to face
the sea again. a fish will come or not in time, lured not by guile or will, but fate.

the sun is gentle in the morning, the horizon emerges from the mist.
the water sighs, then comes a shadow, a click, a burst, the line and fish cut
through the water swift and defined, towards the deep and then a dive, here
there, feint thrust and parry, the fish gives all to stay alive.

seems hours gone in minutes, then the end comes near. the tide and crashing
waves spur him to action; the fish is his if he can make it to the sand. a jump and
then a tumble, hat gone, he reels and pulls and reels, the whitewater lifts and throws,
till on his knees, and out of breath, he grasps the tail and gills, by hand.

upon a rock right for the sitting, eyes turned to the sea, gratitude abides him
as he conjures up a way to bring the fish home whole, as he is, but first a prayer
and then the clean, the tie, the lift and climb, he, and the fish, sure and true, under
the sun now bright as gold, under the sky now cobalt blue.